F.A.Q. Advice for the 21st Century

FAQ TWENTY FIVE: ROAD TRIP!

Warren crutched to the purple van and hopped into the back seat. Kanois pushed a button and the door automatically closed as Warren let out a sigh and said, “The whole sports fan base is obsessed with the physical attributes of the modern day athlete. It’s unbelievable.”

“There’s Bass Ale in the cooler, baby. Do you want to go to my place or should I let you off at the paper or your house or what?”

Kanois checked the rear view mirror.

“Well, I haven’t been home in a few days. I guess I should address my housekeeping at some point.”

Warren reached into the cooler. “How did you like my first day in the sports barrel.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get better.” Kanois laughed. “I’ve got a productive few hours planned, so I hope you don’t mind if I take you right home.”

Kanois pulled onto the interstate and accelerated into the traffic, reaching down to insert The Beach Boys Endless Summer into the CD player.

Warren’s cell phone rang. “Hello,” Warren said into the Nokia.

“Hi there ace, it’s Bailey. I listened to your whole show this afternoon, and I’ve got some ideas I would like to bounce off you.”

“That’s what voice mail is for, sweets.”

“How would you feel about having a partner?’

“Gulp.”

“I’m thinking, even though he’s yet to be cleared of murder charges, Mad Wolf re-emerging on the station might be great for the ratings.”

“Gulp!”

“Don’t try and decide now, I’ll call you in about twenty minutes to give you time to think about it. Chow. Arever derci. Later, sweetcheeks. Good to have you aboard.”

The line went dead.

Kanois took the exit for Warren’s house. “What did Bailey have to say for herself?”

“She said she’d see me at the ballpark.”

Kanois wrinkled her nose at Warren. “Hey, wish me luck with this new supplier. If all goes well, I’ll be in New York for the fall show at Bryant Square Park.”

“Good luck Kanois,” Warren said as she pulled into his driveway. The police car across the street blinked it’s headlights at Warren as he waved good-bye to Kanois and entered his house, a Bass Ale in each pants pocket.

 

The lights in the hallway of his three bedroom two story colonial just outside of Houston in Menatree were on low. The refrigerator turned off just as Warren opened the white door of the freezer compartment to insert the odd Bass. A sound from the living room caught his attention and he sucked in his breath. When his cat Penny rubbed his leg he actually jumped, bad leg and all.

Then, the sound again.

“I hope I’m not scaring you too much, keeping you from bringing me one of those Bass Ales,” Perth said from the living room.

The lights in the living room were out, but several Yankee Candles were lit to illuminate Perth’s lounging form relaxing on the Basset sofa.

“I would ask how you get in here, but I’d rather discuss the phases of the moon with Aristotle. I might have more of a chance of getting a straight answer.”

Warren limped over to Perth and extended a Bass. She took it from him and patted the seat beside her.

Warren limped toward the stairs. “I’d love to accept your invitation, but I’ve got to check my messages before they go the way of digital dust.”

Perth took a sip of Bass and patted her leg to invite Penny to keep her company. “Hurry back. There’s a storm coming, and we can watch the rain together and figure out where you went wrong with your life.”

Warren turned and smiled at Perth. “Put on some Credence, will ya?”

The upstairs smelled like the scented candles Warren had burned a few nights before while communing with Kanois’s native spirit. The message machine on his nightstand blinked. Warren limped over and punched the blue play button.

“Hi this is Bailey. I’ve just had an idea. Since the Crocketts are out of the playoffs and you seem so depressed about losing your press seat for the big games, why don’t we send you on a little tour? You could do your show from the cities you visit. And I could maybe get a couple of your favorite Crocketts to go along with you do to commentary. It’s an idea still in it’s rough stages, but I think I can get most of the details worked out by the time you go on the air tomorrow. Call me, and don’t stay up too late. I can hear it in your voice.”

The A, T, &T machine announced another message.

“Hi, this is Audrey from Terminex, we would like to offer you a free termite inspection and lawn resodding. Cal me at 1-800-Terminex.”

Then a third message.

“Yo, this the Mad Wolf. So, Piece, I guess we’ll be working together. That’s the only way that high horsed Harper currently running the stable will let me ride back to the airwaves. She said I should call you and apologize for trying to get you saddled with a murder charge, but hell, boy, I needed time to think. There’s more to the horse farm than sunshine and roses, and I wanted to try to stay out of the manure pile. I knew you were slick, but I gotta tell ya I was really impressed with the extreme brevity of your incarceration that day. So, what, I’ll be riding herd on our show here at home while you’re traveling the ZBA playoff world? Heck, son, I don’t mind that deal. I gotta raise money for the defense, and the cops don’t want me to leave the Ponderosa just yet anywho. Later boy.”

A, T, & T man said, “Message four, 3:32 p.m.”

“Hey Piece, Frank W. Coleman. You’re on the playoffs, I’ll need three columns a week. I tell you that knowing I’ll get one. Just don’t forget to mention us heavily on KSPORT, or I’ll have to cut off your per diem you double dippin’ basterd. Call me back only if you have something intelligent to say. Stay loose kid.”

“Message ffive 5:25 pm.”

“Warren Piece. This is Ben Harper. You never got this call. I’ll be back in town for an hour tomorrow. Meet me at high noon on the airport lounge.”

Warren sat on the bed and punched replay scanning through the first four messages. There was no fifth. Only a recording that said, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.”

 

“That’s interesting, I’d heard of that technology, but we’ve never had a confirmation it actually existed. In an abuse case last week, the man said his wife was leaving messages on his voice mail at work, but when he tried to play the threats back for us there was just a offer for termite inspection and free sodding, if you can believe that.”

Perth walked over to Warren and punched him back on the bed. “I think sometimes the cure for contact with a technological mystery is a cold beer, a back rub, and exposure to a superheated warp core, which I happen to posses.”

Warren said, “The scientists at Princeton have nothing on you, Perth.”

Perth got up and unbuttoned her pants, shoving them over her hips and pulling them off with her left hand. She placed them on the chair and bent over Warren and began to take his pants off carefully, causing particularly pleasant movement of her breasts as she tugged on the Dockers to get them over his cast.

“So, I have to ask,” she said, now totally naked and sitting on Warren’s altogether. “Ben Harper?”

Warren moaned, “He and I are going to meet tomorrow downtown for a chili dog…uh…outside the courthouse…around noon…as an officer of the uhh court, I suspect you’ll want to attend, but as a favor to me could you do two things?”

Perth continued to shift her weight back and forth as she replied, “I’m concentrating on one favor right now, sweetie.”

“Ummm, so you are. Perth, just let me talk to him first, OK?”

Perth rolled off Warren, moved to the center of the bed and opened her arms and legs. “Let’s leave all talking for later. Right now you need to think about baseball.”

 

The Earl Campbell Airport bar television was on a documentary about the origins of the tealeaf. Warren sat down and ordered a caulua and coffee, waiting for the appearance of a ghost and the subsequent SWAT episode that was sure to follow.

“Mr. Piece?”

Warren turned.

“Here’s your Calua sir, that’ll be seven fifty.”

Warren turned again.

“I’m Ben Harper.”

Warren turned again.

“Hi, Ben, just a minute. Here you go, keep the change. What’s happening, Mr. Harper?”

Ben took Warren’s coffee from the bar. “Let’s go to a corner table.”

 

“I’m sure you’re wondering who I am. My brother ran the media properties, such as they were, I ran the oil business, behind the scenes. Five years ago, I sold everything I owned and joined a Sherpa tribe in the Himalayas, you know, get back to the laws of nature. Plus, it was cool being the local giant.”

“A Gulliver’s Travels kind of thing.”

“Yeah, but don’t ya know I discovered, on one of my many trips in the mountains, a very cool ingigneous rock. Curious, I had it analyzed back here in Houston. I still only trust my southern brothers in Texas when it comes to the important work.”

“If you ain’t Texan, you ain’t shit.”

“Something like that.”

“Hi Warren.”

Bailey Harper joined Ben and Warren, holding a hand in the air to call the waitress.

Ben said, “Long story short, I had happened on a previously undiscovered mother lode of carbonite, only valuable now because some guy at M.I.T needs a buttload for his nano research. So, there I was, rich all over again.”

“But, hey uncle, being rich don’t suck! Hey everybody. Glad I could make this sugar cane chew. HEY BARTENDER! A shot of Maker’s Mark, and bring the bottle!”

Ben said, “Dole, you look like the tenth car in an eleven car pile-up.”

Warren said, “Interesting analogy. I’ve got to make a call.”

Ben said, “I’ve got to disappear, myself. I just wanted to have a face to face before I go back to the Sherpas.”

Warren said, “One question. Ben?”

“Daddy’s little joke. We were twins, and while momma was still on the Darvon, we were officially dubbed Ben A and Ben B.”

Bailey said, “Warren, let me give you a ride to the station.”

Dole said, “Hell, was it somethin’ I said?”

Warren said, “One day, Dole, we’ll have you tested and see if somewhere in your composition there is a shred of human tissue.”

Dole said, “I’d get up and kick your ass, but I’m just starting to get comfortable.”

Ben said, “If ya’ll are ever in Bapal, come see me. I’ll be the tallest guy in the village.”

Warren crutched out of the Rumor Mil Bar and Grill, trailing Ben B. Harper, and leaving Dole behind.

Warren’s Nokia rang.

Perth said, “Well, that was interesting.”

Warren said, “Who knew?”

“We suspected, just needed a visual verification. We are the police, you know.”

“You mean this thing is a camera, too.”

“Not that model. We had a couple of guys over by the Fica bushes eating Reese’s Pieces and looking at the cover of FHM though the plastic. They had the camera.”

“Can I take the bug off now? I’m about to some things to Bailey that are very private.”

“I think you need to leave the monitoring device on until a registered technician can disconnect you.”

Warren gingerly negotiated the entrance to Bailey’s Texas limo, a black Chevy suburban.

“Are you a registered technician?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

 

 

“Hello and welcome to the third week of A Piece of the Afternoon Radio Show. Brenda from Patamkin, you’re on KSPORT!”

“Hi Warren. I’m not sure you’re going to listen to everything I have to say, but if you’ve got any kahonjas at all, you’ll let me finish my statement.”

“Let it fly sister.”

“I have season tickets to the Texas Grangers baseball team. Last week I drove to the game, consuming my usual pre-game personal concessions when I was pulled over by some smartass old Texas Ranger named Hinckey. He stripped searched me by the side of interstate 20, jacked my car up and removed my left rear tire, packed up my Blaupunkt radio, and said I was under arrest for driving without a loaded weapon.”

“I’m with you so far Brenda, but let me ask you something. Was that the game the Grangers committed thirteen errors, ten by the millionaire shortstop?”

“Yeah! That game! “

“Well, you didn’t miss much my friend!”

“I had to give up my season tickets to get my underwear back.”

“That’s something that won’t show up in the box score!”

“My other cell phone is ringing, I’ve got to go.”

The line went dead and Warren signaled Mandy to take the station to break without saying another word.

“Mandy, was that girl for real?” Warren asked over the intercom.

“If I make a little extra dough putting my friends on the air with their little stories, what do you care?”

Warren sighed and punched the hotline button. “Hello.”

“That girl was great!”

“Mad Wolf?”

“Yeah baby, put me on the air.” Warren keyed the intercom. “Mandy, can we put Mad Wolf on the air next?”

Mandy stood up and glared at Warren through the glass.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Warren said, laughing.

 

“It’s 4:30 and hot in Houston. Tonight’s low should be around sixty five, maybe a thunderstorm to the west causing high winds and hazardous conditions, just so you know what’s happening when you’re longhorns start complaining. And now, ladies and gentlemen, unbeknownst to me, a man known far and wide as a sports expert who knows nothing at all about that spate of convenience store robberies in South Houston, he swears, Mad Wolf Sherman. Good Afternoon Mr.Wolf!”

“Good afternoon, Piece, how do you like doing my show?”

“Once I got rid of the zombies and walking wounded you called a producer and a researcher, things began to work out fine. I have to ask you because it’s been in all the papers and I’m sure inquiring minds want to know, how’s things in the legal world of Mad Wolf Sherman?”

“My lawyer phoned me just prior to this phone call and advised me to say nothing as that could tilt the table. I’ve got nothin’ to hide, and everything to lose by shootin’ my mouth off before the rodeo’s over. Now, how about those Crocketts?”

“I think, and most of the KSPORT faithful agree, if we could find some sort of anti-aging drug and administer it all around the locker room, we might have a chance next year.”
“I know what you’re sayin’ cowboy. I read the Bling Bling in New York are signing their best outside shooter to a contract that puts him in a position to become a jetsetter with his own fleet of jets. The defensive rule changes next year could put Bling Bling Clark Johnson in a commanding position if you count in the fact that he can hit a consistent three from the fifty yard line.”

“I guess the Crocketts don’t have a shot at signing free agent to be Sacramento Queen forward Chris Warbler?”
“Right, Warbler. The Crocketts have the cap room to sign him straight up. And we’ve got lots of soul food in this town. Plus, we don’t care if you’re a little wild, and a matter of fact, I think we like our men to be able to ride a wild bronco every now and again.”

“Danny from Armadillo, you’re on KSPORT with Mad Wolf and Warren Piece.”

“Warren, Mad Wolf, how’s things?”

Mad Wolf responded, “Well, hell, boy I’m keepin’ the brandin’ iron hot.”

“I wanted to make a statement about Tomjohnabitch. I think the players are listening to a different frequency than the one he’s broadcasting on. I don’t really blame Deadburn, that irritating basterd. I don’t blame Parthenon, although I must say for him, listening to Tomjohnabitch’s pregame and halftime motivational speeches must be like watching TV Land. He’s been there what, ten years? How much material could Tomjonabitch have? Even Mel Brooks is going back in time for his latest Broadway hit!”

Warren said, “Well, Danny, you’ve dialed the right number my friend. I talked to some of the Crocketts the other day as ‘That Guy from The Journal Express’, and they told me off the record they’re considering pooling some money and hiring Tomjohnabitch a writer or at least some dancers to accompany him during his addresses to the team. They actually repeated his ‘We ended the season early but we’ll get ‘em next year’ speech word for word and in three part harmony, as he’s had to give that soliloquy a lot these past few years. So, my point is, guys, this guy Warbler hasn’t heard Rudy’s greatest hits. What do you think?”

“Well,” said Mad Wolf, “I think anyway you can improve yourself you should. Like personally I like to take male hormones. Even though it makes my breast bigger I think my hair’s thicker and I’ve noticed I use my chain saw more! WHAT ARE YOU TAKKING ABOUT? THESE GUYS DON’T CARE ABOUT WHAT THE COACH SAYS IN HIS MOTIVATIONAL RAMBLINGS. PLEASE! If we could get Warbler the way he plays depends on how many touches he gets a game and whether he can remain injury free. Hey, Piece, where do you get these calls from?”

“Well, Mad Wolf, as usual you’re on the illiterate side of the equation. I think the superstar players love a coach who make their exploits on the court equal to discovering electricity or feeding the children of Zimbabwe. Look in Miami. Look in New York. A good coach in today’s ZBA is under control freak in the dictionary. And by the way, I’m sure Mandy our producer found that bit about your breasts very interesting. It’s 5:00 on KSPORT, time for a turbocharged sports update from Lily Creamer on KSRT, Houston!”
“Good afternoon everyone, the ZBA playoffs begin on Monday, and the Crocketts are on the outside looking in…”

Warren removed his headphones and picked up Mad Wolf’s line. “Well I must say this phone call wasn’t exactly a surprise.”

“Listen, why don’t we have dinner tonight? I’ve got some things I want to hash out with you.”

“Well, if you don’t mind I think I’ll pass.”

“If we’re going to be partners we need to talk.”

“So let’s talk now.”

“I need to see you face to face.”

“Not happening.”

“You act like a guy who owns the rodeo.”

“I’m not facing murder charges.”

“Asshole.”

“Later.”

Warren keyed the intercom. “Mandy, we seem to have lost the connection with Mad Wolf, and I don’t expect we’ll get it back anytime today.”

Mandy smiled at Warren through the glass, stuck out her pierced tongue at him, and said, “My pleasure.”

 

 

Seven O’clock came and Warren gave up the KSPORT airwaves to Steve Somers, the former voice of the Houston Astros who’d grown tired of the baseball grind and was currently expanding his horizons by expounding on the sporting life 7-11 on KSPORT.

Warren limped to the elevator.

Kanois’s baby blue ‘69 Shelby Mustang idled outside the front door of KSPORT. She had the top down and was wearing a leopard skin bikini with a white shear cover up.

“So, what’s the occasion?”

Kanois gunned the 351 Cleveland motor, turned up ZZ Top’s ‘I Heard it on the X’, and headed toward the streets of Houston. “I felt a little frisky after work today. We are coming along with the summer production schedule. I’m wearing what we hope will be our featured product in the Dillard’s window.”

Warren leaned back against the white leather seat. “Very nice.”

“Are we going to the Rangers game tonight?”

“Oh, yeah, we’re going. Hey, can you take me to the airport Friday? I’ve got to go to LA to cover a basketball game. Something about the playoffs Bailey’s cooked up. You could come along if you want.”

Kanois pulled into traffic and said, “Sweetie, you know I’d love to go the Nailgun Center and hang with a bunch of flashy egomaniacs tripping over each other to get a look at celebrity row, but I’ve got to see a man about a dress. However, I can carry you to the airport. What time are you leaving?”

Warren didn’t answer. Kanois glanced over and smiled. Warren had gone to sleep.

 

Kanois dropped Warren at his center hall colonial and laid ten feet of rubber as her goodbye wave. Warren entered his Houston home and went directly to the Mac G-5 in his upstairs bedroom that overlooked the pool.

Time to play ball. He signed on to F.A.Q., Advice for the 21st Century.

 

Dear Warsall,

I’m an excellent fast pitch softball pitcher for a major corporation’s top flight softball team.

I go beyond the average pitch count, stay in the strike zone, and give each and every batter a high hard one to remember me by.

Recently, my colleagues have accused me of making the game boring, and are starting to openly mock me.

They say I’m making the game frustrating!

What the hell?!?!?!

I’ve got a crisp curve, I adapt to the shift in wind speed and direction!

I even will pitch to people who’ve recently transferred in from out of state!

My problem is this:

We’ve gotten a new coach who must have last coached a girls high school soccer team. He’s too loose and out of control! He won’t even let me call time out to adjust myself when my ego gets too tight for my uniform pants! He says, ‘Just pitch the damn ball!”

And this goes beyond balls and strikes. How can I have skull sessions on the job with people who seem intent on souring our relationship by dissin’ my gargantuation softball skills?

So I’ve made a plan to get the awareness level up among my fellow softballers.

I just need help picking my spot.

One idea I had…I accompany every good morning with an information packet containing my stats for the last 10 years and a nice 6×9 black and white photo of me in my uniform.

OR…I could demonstrate my pick off move at strategic points during the day, like on crowded elevators, at the beginning and ending of all client meetings, and as I exit the men’s room.

Or…lastly, I could climb out of the 13th story ledge of our beautiful downtown office building and shout, “Let me pitch or I jump and become the ultimate free agent, you sons of bitches!

signed,

John Palmer

 

Yo Johnny,

Sit tight buddy!

I’m sending you the following care package:

– a game of Yatzee.

– a picture of Yazmine Bleeth from her Baywatch days (remember girls Johnny?)

– A pitcher of Mike Piazza in his Hanes (hey, just covering my bases here!)

– Tickets to the island of Zempobala in the Caribbean along with a cash stipend of three grand. Take a time out, my friend, before the umpires throw you out of the game for good! Refamiliarize yourself with the rulebook!

– The phone number to ‘I was a softball butthole anonymous help line’.

Good luck and be well!

 

Dear Warrite,

My brother and I owned 13 beautiful custom painted Harley-Davidson Sportsters. We kept them in a climate controlled environment storage facility in the southeastern part of Arizona. I recently took a ride with my wife of fifteen years to a beautiful clean vacation spot just outside of Sante Fe. We were on my bike of choice for short hops, a Suzuki 500. If Evil Kinival had tried to jump the Snake River Canyon of one of these blood to the back of the brain acceleration monsters there would have been no need for apologies and accusations.

So, there we were, walking on sunshine, my scantily clad baby and me, on my bike, spinning toward a mudbath and a nice bottle of Chardonnay when I was struck by a thought.

My brother had recently opened a website which sold real estate nationwide, a deal he put together with 500,000 dollars of venture capital a few of his friends had obtained by speculating on railroad stocks.

Tooling toward my well earned relief from the everyday, a key statement from my brother surfaced in my mind. He had said, “I don’t see why people are waiting for this new technology economy to burst. We should stop saving our nuts for the winter. We can’t think like that anymore! You’d have to be really dumb to make a mistake in this market. I’d be willing to sacrifice my future to be a player in the Internet game! This run won’t be finished for years, is my point.”

I couldn’t shut my brother up when he started to talk about the ‘hot’ market. So I just try to steer him onto the subject of football, which he knows very little about. But something about the look in his eye during the last diatribe was stuck in my mind.

I slowed my bike to the 70 mile per hour speed limit, reached for my Ericsson cell phone and speed dialed our Harley storage facility.

The phone was answered on the tenth ring by an out of breath Angie Desmond, the owner’s daughter. I exchanged pleasantries and during our exchange she thanked me for our business and hoped that in the future, when I had need for a storage facility for anything at all I would remember what a knock out job they had done with the Harleys, and by the way, copies of the shipping tickets were in the mail. I should have them by this afternoon.

The wind up is, the bikes are gone, sold to a group called Momma’s Boys in Northeast Wisconsin.

My brother is in the wind running his website from a remote location in the Caribbean.

And on my way to the spa I crashed the 500, breaking my arm and giving my wife a serious abrasion on her lovely left breast. (We crashed so hard her halter top flew off!)

My question is this:

Do you prefer Valium or Xanax to deal with life’s little bumps in the road?

signed,

Dan and Lisa Butterworth

 

Yo Butterpeople,

The administration of narcotics has been on my mind recently, mainly because my pharmaceutical stocks are in the toilet. I spoke to an Indian doctor friend of mine in an AOL chatroom last night and she recommended chewing on Ibogan root after a cup of Ginseng tea with one half a teaspoon of brown bear honey.

Just make sure you stay close to a bathroom for at least an hour after you drink the tea and chew the root.

Also, you may find you need to adjust your root chewing time if you remain slumped over for more than half a day!

Bikers rule!!!

 

 

Warsine,

I am an architect currently on sabbatical from my design and construction firm in Spokane, Washington. I’ve been touring the countryside since last summer, just me, my laptop and the entire Steely Dan CD collection.

I’ve seen the glass towers of Houston (from the back of a Chevy Suburban wearing only a cowboy hat and screaming Yahoo!!! once every five seconds for reasons we won’t go into), I’ve gazed at the Washington monuments (while on my cell phone listening to ‘Debra’ exercise her right to free speech for 99 cents a minute), and I’ve gazed at the tallest buildings in the United States in Chicago and New York (from the windows of two very expensive massage therapy centers).

My next step is L.A., where I plan to spend hours gazing at architecture of a silicone variety.

I’m worried.

I feel I’m losing my seriousness of purpose.

My whole life I’ve been focused, fielding every challenge that came my way. But the last year I’ve barely been able to protect my reputation as a hard charger by cell phone and web mail.

I’ve officially taken a sabbatical, and as my self imposed deadline for returning to my architectural firm approaches, I find myself wanting to not go back, indeed, to change my focus.

I’ve noticed a lot of buildings, which have fallen into decline with no apologies from the owners for treating some of the world’s classic construction and design so shabbily. I want to set up a fund for restoration of entire groups of buildings, like those abandoned and portrayed as hopeless along the Potomac River, for example.

My problem is this:

I can only finance such a venture by designing and building K-Marts, Wal-Marts, and a domed stadium in Houston, all of which I could do with one hand tied behind my back and my architect of the year 1999 trophy in the other.

Should I worry about the dichotomy between buildings I’m building and the architectural masterpieces I plan to save?

I’m distraught (but I’m still going to L.A.)

Sidney McDonald

 

Hey Frank Lloyd freakin’ Wright,

You build an award winning architect design team and then deal yourself out, become a modern day pirate like figure traveling the country ostensibly on an inward journey, then turn that journey into a skirt chasing spree Jack Nicholson could love.

I’m so jealous!

What I see here is an all star performance by a man who, had life been more fair, would have been the true rival Hugh Hefner never had.

And entrapanurial to boot!

Building Wal-Marts!

Building sports stadiums!

What a humanitarian!

One word of advice.

When designing the Wal-Mart be careful with the PA system. R.T.Smith, an audio editor friend of mine, says getting a system which can clearly convey to Wal-Mart shoppers which isle the red light sale is on can be a phasing nightmare.

Good luck, and send photos!

 

 

Warstroke,

I’m currently in England where I’ve been spending several hours of every day watching Big Ben. I’m waiting for an ephipiny which I feel will be produced by the effect of standing in the cold London fog in my Burberry raincoat listening to Jazz-FM on my Walkman while waiting for the chimes of Big Ben to reverberate through my bones.

So far, after five days, my epiphany has been as follows:

Day 1 – That warm English beer can cause some interesting noises to occur within your digestive system.

Day 2 – A Sprint PCS phone doesn’t work in England.

Day 3 – The kids are all right

Day 4 – The Bobbies will arrest you for standing in more than one spot for ten hours even if you can hum the entire Boy George catalog.

Day 5 – The dollar is doing well against the pound.

See, I’m not exactly making progress in my search for a Confucius type moment here in the Motherland.

Should I turn this into a business trip so it at least comes off my taxes?

God Save The Queen,

Reginald Doobarn

 

Hey Reg,

You’re a riot! What you’ve done is all correct, according to an astrologer friend of mine, Theotis Holland. You’re problem is one of time.

You should try you’re routine sometime between 10 pm and 4am. That’s when all good English ideas have been born, from taxation without representation to ‘maybe we should cut off her head!’ That would fix everything!’

Try that, and write when you get stateside, I think I can get you a book deal (if you manage to get attacked by a gang of rabid soccer fans between now and then).

 

Wartan,

I always thought I was a privileged man. However, the last three years have left me filled with doubt and questioning the universe as we know it.

I attended the Marymount private University for Men where I majored in Gynecology and minored in meteorology. At the age of 21, I came into a sizable trust fund and joined the French foreign legion.

After two years of service I moved to Russia where I married a voluptuous nuclear physicist. Six months into our marriage, she mysteriously disappeared.

Heartbroken, I moved to Montreal, where I married a knockout who played violin with the Montreal National Symphony (first chair, of course). Six months into our marriage, she was killed after being pushed in front of Metro subway train in a case of mistaken identity.

Heartbroken, I moved to California where I married a very sexy blonde environmentalist. Six months into our marriage she was killed while participating in an illegal logging operation in Yellowstone National Park.

Heartbroken, I’m contemplating my next move.

Given my record, I thinking I should marry a female mafia boss so at least my next loss would benefit society and help my brother, who works for the FBI.

Please advise.

George Schifini

Hey Georgio,

I’ve just finished a ‘Big Grab‘ bag of Doritos and man were they tasty!

You’ve got an unusual talent and with that talent comes a huge responsibility.

Here is what I would advise you to do.

Go to your local BMW dealer and purchase a 500E Series touring sedan.

Mail the keys, the registration, and the title (signed over to Warren Piece) to me at P.O. box 69, Duluth Minnesota, 10089.

Drive to the nearest airport, and book a flight to Geneva, preferably traveling late at night.

I’ve taken the liberty of making an appointment with my old friend Dr. Laura Jenson, a sex change expert who is at the top of her field.

She’s just your type, a professional woman who knocks your eyes out and takes your breath away on a bad day. On a good day, guys take off their shirts and burst into tears whenever she walks by.

She’s currently single and my people on the ground in Geneva tell me she’s looking for love.

Dr. Laura convinced my third wife, who I enjoyed very much, to have a sex change operation, and I’ve been looking for a way to get her back ever since.

Do your thing, Russell!!!

 

 

Wartan,

I’m a chicken farmer in Montana who thrives on living in my own little fantasy world.

Technology has given me the ticket to ride.

I spend hours surfing the web jumping in and out of chat rooms, trading stock, gambling offshore, and uploading recipes to my website, beakboil.com.

My wife, two boys, and daughter help me break away from the computer when I get carried away and am about to miss something important like a ‘new classic movie’ on TNT or an episode of V.I.P.

Clearly, I have it made!

My problem is this:

Something I found on the net yesterday afternoon really disturbed me. I found a web page, which showed autopsy photos of devil worship victims. After spending several hours on this site and crunching the numbers I discovered 70% of rites involving devil worship use fowls as an integral part of their ceremony with chickens featured 95% of the time.

Am I missing out on a major portion of my potential market?

cockadoodle to you,

Russell Shine

 

Rus,

You are obviously a player my friend. I realize that frustration over missed opportunity can be a paralyzing force. But sometimes you’re better off not doing something, you know what I’m sayin’?

Can you imagine waking up in the middle of the night looking out the window and seeing your chickens walking around the pen talking French and hammering nails into the tires of your Saab convertible, mind boggling stuff like that.

I’m sending you DVD’s of Exorcist I and II along with a copy of Playboy featuring Linda Blair in her grown up altogether.

If after reviewing these items you still think revamping your business plan in hopes of making millions on the backs of that socioeconomic sector of our society which can’t start a meeting without a few drops of blood and a flaming picture of Pandora’s box is the way to go, you might at least want to rivet your furniture to the floor, buy several gold crosses, three or four wooden stakes, a couple of rubber mallets, and a copy of the yellow pages translated into Latin.

OM Demini Om Demini Ohm Demini.

 

The cell phone rang the William Tell Overture, Kanois’s little joke on Warren. Warren reached over Valerie and said ‘Hello hello’ into the open air to clear his voice before answering the Nokia.

“Hello.”

“Warren. Bailey Harper. I need to meet with you. Come to the airport, and bring your travel kit. You’re going on the road.”

“Bailey, what time is it?”

“My expertise does not lie in timekeeping. Whatever time it is, it is. I do know your flight for Seattle leaves in four hours. I’ve got your team here with me, and everybody’s exciting about your idea to take the show on tour!”

“What? I need coffee.”

“Whatever you need, sugar. The ratings for your, as you call it, ‘your group effort’, are keeping pace with everyone else in afternoon drive. This should put you over the top. This and the contest.”

“You’re on a roll I see.”

“KSPORT is giving away 100% health care for five years for a lucky sports fan family!”

“How topical.”

“Your flight leaves in four hours. Get here early and I’ll give you a personal bonus!”

Bailey hung up.

Warren walked to the window and looked out over Valerie’s townhouse landscaping. Leafy green plants were professionally placed around the walkways. Flowers bloomed brilliantly in immaculately maintained beds. The Dogwoods were gorgeous. The pool reflected the sun off an impossibly blue surface. Several well chiseled tanned bodies lunged around the perimeter of the water in bamboo lounge chairs.

Valerie spoke from behind him. “Warren?”

Warren turned and said, “Looks like I’m going to Seattle.”

 

Valerie drove her mint 240 Z through the Houston traffic, her brown hair in a clip and her unrestrained body shimmering with every gear change.

Warren stopped gazing at her and turned his attention out the window.

The city of Houston sparkled a goodbye. Somewhere in those glass towers people were giving each other the eye in the elevator, gossiping in the bathrooms, e-mailing the joke of the day, ordering the latest Dan Tanna sunglasses from the Sharper Image catalogue, swimming, working out, making love, having sex, getting haircuts, having their nails done, petting the cat, playing with the dog, teaching the kids to read and write and stay off drugs…life in the shit kickers big town.

Oil, Texas T.

Power.

Confidence.

If you ain’t Texan, you ain’t shit.

Warren said, “I wonder what Seattle’s slogan is? Those Northwestern types love a slogan!”

Valerie shot a big grin in his direction, shifted her coffee cup to her left hand, and accelerated to take the airport exit at eighty five.

 

Valerie pulled away from the curb and rummaged in the console for her cell phone. She speed dialed a number and when the voice on the other end answered she said, “He’s on the plane.”

“Thank you Valerie, you’re a sweetheart. My invitation to a group discussion on the comparative merits of sensual body lotions is wide open.”

“Thanks, Dole, but I’ve got a lane at the gun club waiting on me. Later.”

Valerie pointed the 240Z toward the entrance ramp to the interstate and speed shifted her way toward the gun club.

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